Tragédie
by Trind
Summary: Will Christine ever come to terms with her emotions? A trip to the Bois only adds to her frustration.
1. Flaw

A/N: Here we are, another Phantom-inspired prose piece.  The idea to describe these events (trip to the Bois, Raoul's appearance… I made up the rest :D) came as I was doing my US History II notes.  I never thought I'd owe any of my creative abilities to _that_ class… *sings Alanis' _Ironic_ song*

Disclaimer: Ha!  I forgot that I've been forgetting to disclaim any rights to the characters mentioned in my writing.  Well, now I am.  Hi, I don't own you!  :D!  Or anything else for that matter… Such is the life of a dependant.

"Tragédie"

Fully flushed in the face from the close encounter—with Erik's seemingly simple gesture or the appearance of the car of Raoul's drunken friends, she did not know—the young woman made an attempt to sit back in her seat for the ride back to the Opera.  It was of no use, though; oh, God!  He had offered her his hand!  It was a common practice in the day for a gentleman to assist a lady into a carriage, but she had never willingly _touched_ him before. . .Even through gloved hands, the meeting of their bodies would have meant so much more than mere civility: they would have seen each other as equals—their love could have bloomed into the red rose, as the white rose and the nightingale were mature enough to handle such a relationship.  This could only have been if the connection was made, though—that physical notion must have taken place.   

            It did not.

            So, was that why her heart, wracked in anguish, felt so low—so inadequate?  Of course her lover had to intervene—her lover!  Raoul!  Had she completely disregarded her childhood companion?  Really, she couldn't do anything right, not even take the hand of her faithful friend and maestro.  Now she had probably broken the poor Raoul to shards; he had seen her in Erik's company, had he not?  But what if he hadn't?  Then, she was wasting all this worry for naught!  Foolish girl, that Christine was.  All she had to do was take the carriage back to the Opera House, and all would be worked out.  Of course, a bit of fresh air couldn't have hurt.  She peered out the window, only to find the very boy she'd tried desperately to elude riding in his own carriage, parallel to hers.  He met her eyes with his, and it was all over.

            Quick to return to her former position, Christine struggled not to have a heart attack for the duration of the drive.

            She could never fully understand him.  Even as he caringly held the hidden entrance door for her, she did not realize the magnitude of love he held in her name, or the burning madness of murderous rage he bore for her young friend.  Heavens, could anyone have?  No, she thought, he was too alien from humankind to be understood.  She walked through, carrying these lofty thoughts, determined to quell the imposing impression of gloom.  He followed suit and shut the door; she promptly gave way to her senses.

            "Erik. . ." she started, barely standing in place.  "Erik, I hurt him, didn't I?  I don't want to hurt anybody, Erik.  Not anybody. . ."  Her tremulous voice did nothing to mask her obvious awareness of his ever-nearing presence behind her.  _Please don't touch me, please don't touch me_. . .

            "He is not of my concern."  She could have leant back into his chest, she realized.  He was so close, yet sounded so far.  Damn his ventriloquism. . .

            "I. . .I . . ." her words escaped fruition, and she could not speak any longer.  He stealthily stole his place before her to begin the journey to the house before the lake in the deepest bowels of the Opera—his home.  

            "Christine, you are too kind—yet so cruel, you do not even know. . ."  the Phantom's whispers were mostly to himself, as the girl was more occupied with keeping pace with her guide; she was afraid of the dark.  


	2. Unknown

author's note: Out of boredom, I've decided to continue my little "fic" called "Tragedie."  Yep.

bDisclaimer/b: Cheese is good, who is the scarlet pimpernel, this is Halloween, Halloween, Halloween, we wish you a merry Christmas.  Hidy ho!

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Sequence II

      She'd experienced it before, that feeling when you discover yourself in one place, but cannot remember how on earth you got there.  II am such a fool; I cannot even recall my steps!/I  I must be going mad.  On one side of the drawing room sat a woman cursing herself.  A man employed the same pastime on the other.

      "Shall we sing tonight?" she finally settled on.  Every night was filled with their song.  She did not doubt the existence of a voice lesson-she would have said anything to hear his voice.  

      "Actually, my dear, I would rather talk to you tonight."  Erik thieved a path to his piano bench.  

      "Talk?  Talk of what?"  INo lesson?  Oh, but you must sing for me or I may burst!  /I

      "Christine," he started, but had a less-than-confident time gathering his copious thoughts, "I need to know to what degree you love that boy."

      IRaoul?/I  "I. . . I do not know what you mean. . . What are you implying?"

      "Don't do this to me, Christine!" he shot up.  What ragged waves of ardor and apathy collided behind his unhappy eyes-this was a time she craved the most.  He could love and murder her all at once, and she wouldn't even notice.

      It came in a whisper.  "I do not love anybody."

      "I see."  He regained his composure instantaneously.  His deftness would at once do away with him, some day.  A shift so rapid can only lead to combustion.

      "No. . . I am not heartless!" she implored, but he was beyond compassion.  "You think I am?  Oh, God, am I really?"  Her urgency was unexpected and caused yet another rift in his attitude.  

      "Child," he started, advancing towards her.  He stopped in time to be as far from yet as close to her as possible.  She could hear his breathing again, slowly regaining pace up to a pant.  "You endure all the love in the world.  I know this."

      "IForgive me. . . Tell me I'm loved. . . by. . ./I" her words were barely audible, but he could hear every syllable.  

      "Pardon?  For what need you forgiveness?" What is she rambling about?

      "ITouch me./I"

      It was too much, as it always was.  He stumbled back a few steps before he could realize what unexpected actions she was taking next.  She rose and tentatively edged her way towards him.  It was fire she would be walking into.

      "I want to know that I will not go mad.  I want my heart to stop scoring my lungs, and my lungs to start fanning my eyes, so that I may rid myself of foolishness for ever."  She could not help but sound like a child, clearly wanting what she confessed, yet truly desiring that which is the opposite.  Her arm lifted itself, it seemed, and her small fingers neared his lips, his medium of greatness.  She could not touch.  She dared not touch.

      It was he who had to play hero.  A shame; they were both cowards.


End file.
